ChChChanges
by Lela Bonita
Summary: Strange fascination. MR.
1. ChChChanges

**Ch-Ch-Changes**

**Note:**

Apologies to David Bowie.

And the creators of 'Dead Like Me'.

The actors, too.

I swear I don't own any of the characters or rights. I have no money. Please don't sue.

* * *

Forrest Gump was wrong; life isn't like a box of chocolates. 

The idea behind the metaphor is that there are so many different candies inside of the box that you never know what you could end up with; it could be caramel, or chocolate, or even one of those weird ones with the almonds inside of them. But this would be in an ideal world where all chocolates are equal; chances are the first one you'll bite into is one of those annoying pink cream-filled ones and you'll end up tossing out half the box anyways.

Life isn't like a box of chocolates. It's not nearly as sweet.

No, life is more like – more like –

- a Rubik's cube.

You know, one of those weird puzzle boxes that you get when you're a kid – you take it out for the first time and its all nicely aligned and arranged, and all the pretty colours are organized into their neat little sides. A place for everything and everything in its place; nothing is where it shouldn't be. It's perfect.

But only until some asshole takes it from you and decides they should show you how you _really _use it. A few turns, and everything gets fucked up. The arrangement changes, colours are suddenly where they shouldn't be – red is mixed with blue and yellow and white and green and orange, and nothing is the same anymore. For the first little while you try so hard to get it back to the way it began, trying to get a solid wall of colour back, but you just can't get it together again. There's always something in the way.

Eventually, you just give up and toss it away, kind of deal with the fact you'll never solve it.

I guess this is kind of a way of saying: 'Life changes in the blink of an eye. Get the fuck used to it.'

Of course, that was easy to say before I was turned into the equivalent of a meat pie on a Seattle sidewalk because of a zero-g toilet seat that fell when Mir de-orbited, but chances are if you're reading this, you already knew that.

I'm not fucking bitter, by the way. I'm just, you know, observing. And shit. Daisy says I'm bitter. I'm not, and I'll chew out her eyeballs next time she says it.

Anyways, the point is that things change, and most of the time you won't expect it. If you keep opposing the change, fighting it, eventually it'll fight back – sometimes, resistance really is futile.


	2. We Are the Dead

**Note: **This story is more than likely to tread on mature grounds as well as containing content involving male/male relationships and a very liberal smattering of swearing. All content unacceptable for this site will be cut from the story, and can be received via e-mail upon request from the readers once said chapters have been completed.

* * *

Humans are creatures of habits, rituals, and routines. They get up in the morning, have some coffee, go to work, take a break and have some more coffee, work some more, go home, go to bed, and do it all over again the very next day.

That sunny morning in Seattle, it was no different. The streets were packed with cars commuting to work, mothers were walking their children to school, and people were going about their lives as they always did.

Again and again.

Around and around.

"It's like a carousel." George said, and Mason was the only one of the remaining four to actually look up from the table.

"Eh?" he said, shriveling his nose up.

"That guy over there," George went on, pointing to a man across the Waffle house, and Mason followed her finger with his entire head, "He gets the same thing every day. A coffee, an orange juice, and a blueberry muffin, and he always sits in that same seat. Every day."

"So?" Mason said, deciding to keep up his current record of single-syllable responses.

"_So_," George went on, "Doesn't he ever get tired of it? I mean, wouldn't you?"

"I don't know. I don't really like muffins." Mason said, completely missing the point.

"It sounds like he's afraid of change." Daisy piped in, sitting back in her seat and waving a dove-pale hand in the general direction of their subject matter, "He's stuck in a monotonous existence, and he's afraid to leave the protective cocoon he's built around himself."

"You sound like a horoscope."

"Well, that's because I'm _just_ that insightful, _Georgia_." Daisy said in that affected accent before pressing her glossed lips together in a little smile and picking up her coffee.

"Or you're full of shit." Roxie said, attitude already in full swing.

"You are really miserable in the morning." Mason said.

"You're full of shit too."

"You're miserable in the afternoon, as well," Mason went on, oblivious to the fact he was sitting next to a woman with a permit to carry. It wasn't that he didn't know she had a gun; he'd been shot by it once before, so there was little chance he would forget, but for the moment he didn't care about consequences. No doubt he would later though, if the expression on Roxie's face was any barometer.

"In fact; I don't think there's a time when you're not miserable. When are you not miserable, Roxie?"

"When you're not around." Roxie said, and stepped on Mason's foot beneath the table hard enough to make him yelp.

"My god, you're a bitch," Mason said, and the she ground her heel in. No one really seemed to notice, so Mason just writhed in tortured silence.

"Really Roxie, you _must_ see it. The man is quite clearly unable to get on with his life." Daisy said, and looked over at the man – he was currently in the process of paying his bill, "Middle-aged, no ring on his finger, his wallet is _completely_ devoid of any pictures."

She clicked her tongue a little,

"He's being held back by something." She said, as though it were final.

"Or he just likes blueberry muffins and being single." Rube said, and began handing out their assignments for the day.

"You know, Rube, you're kind of like that too," Daisy said, looking down at her post-it without much enthusiasm; someone was going to die, same old, same old, "You've got a routine."

"That's because I've got a job to do." Rube said, giving Roxie her post-it. The moment it was in her hand, she was on her feet, taking a moment to casually grind her heel once more into the bones of Mason's foot before disappearing. He let out a moan of pain and relief now that she was gone, clutching at his foot.

"No, it's because you don't like to change things. You like a schedule." Daisy said, waving her post-it around a little.

"You're right. I do like a schedule." Rube said, leaning forward a little, clasping his hands on the table in front of him, "I like things organized, neat, and clean-cut. I want things to happen when they're supposed to happen, and not a minute earlier or later. I want things like clockwork, all the cogs and wheels moving exactly how they're supposed to, making everything _tick_."

Daisy looked at her post-it a second time, realizing then just how much time she had,

K.J. Washington

Highpoint Branch Library

10:18 a.m.

"This is in _fifteen_ minutes," she said, fanning one hand out to express just exactly how annoyed she was by the entire situation.

"Yes." Rube said, "That's right. So you better get a move on, my dear Daisy Adair, or you're going to be late for your reap."

Daisy made a little scoffing noise, got her purse, and stood from her seat,

"You know, I don't see how you can expect a girl to _work_ under these conditions Rube," she said, putting her pale hands on her hips, "I haven't had _any_ time to prepare."

"This isn't a stage show, Daisy," Rube said, "Someone is about to die, and you have to be there to make sure they get to the other side. And if you aren't, there will be hell to pay."

"Yeah Daisy," George said, head down on the table now, having stopped paying attention to the conversation up until that point, "Move it, or you'll fuck up Rube's tick."

"You too, peanut." Rube said, smiling and handing George a post-it, and she finally looked up from the imperfections of the table grain, "You're on the little hand too."

P. Webb

Kleftiko Kitchen

10:16 a.m.

"Fuck!" George shouted, and practically launched out of her seat.

"I'll go with you Georgie," Mason said.

"No you won't." Rube said, placing a hand heavily onto Mason's shoulder, basically holding the Englishman down in one spot.

"No I won't." Mason agreed, smiling nervously at Rube, at George's retreating form, and back again, "Why won't I?"

"Because you're staying here," Rube said simply, and turned to their usual waitress as she passed by, "Kiffany, can I get a cookie for my friend here? Warmed up, please?"

"Oh shit." Mason said.

"What?" Rube asked.

"Oh shit, fuck, you're buying me food." Mason said, eyes going unnaturally wide as Rube finally removed his hand, allowing Mason to function properly again – he knew he wasn't going anywhere anyways. It wasn't as though Rube had ever threatened him with physical violence, but there was something distinctly intimidating about a man who was just a promotion away from being Death himself. Mason liked to think that in his spare time, Rube sharpened scythes with whetstones and listened to Blue Oyster Cult wearing all black.

What? He used to do a lot of drugs, okay?

"What did I do, Rube?" Mason asked, leaning back a little, as though to get out of arm's length, "I did all my jobs, I did 'em right. I took the souls; I haven't done anything illegal, right? I've been good. I have. What did I do, Ruby?"

At this point, Rube was staring at him with his mouth open a little, thick brows furrowed slightly,

"Why does everyone get so fucking nervous when I buy them food?"

"Because food is your tranquilizer," Mason said, fingers twisting together nervously on the table, "The anesthetic before you bring down the axe – scythe – on our simpering little necks."

Kiffany placed the cookie in front of Mason, giving him a little smile, to which he responded with a tiny, pathetic whimper,

"Thank you Kiffany," Mason whined, then looked back to his boss, "Fucking hell shit bullocks, what did I do, Ruby?"

"Shut up for a second and eat your goddamn cookie." Rube said, rubbing at his temples.

**Note:** Comments, questions, and requests are all appreciated.


	3. It's No Game

* * *

Rube watched with a perverse sort of fascination as Mason poked and prodded at the cookie in front of him as though he were afraid of it, as though it were some foreign species that he was analyzing, tearing it apart jab by jab. For a man who had eaten gum he'd pulled off the underside of diner tables, Mason was being incredibly picky. 

"Rube," Mason began, finally looking up.

"Eat the cookie." Rube said, and Mason returned to poking at it again. This lasted perhaps another half a minute, and Mason looked up again, but only with his eyes.

"But Ruby," he tried, and he was beginning to sound very stressed.

"Don't talk. Eat it." Rube said, and again, Mason began systematically deforming the innocent cookie. The Englishman opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted, "Eat the goddamn cookie, Mason."

"Fine!" Mason shouted, and crammed the entire cookie into his mouth, choked, and died.

No, just kidding, he was already dead. He just kind of coughed a little.

"Good." Rube said, watching Mason chew furiously at the cookie, ignoring that everyone in the restaurant was now watching them closely. Well, almost everyone. The only exception was Kiffany, but she had proven time and time again to have a high tolerance for the strange. Rube liked Kiffany, she did her job and never tried to nose in – though it probably helped that Rube left large tips.

"Alright," Rube said, leaning forward, and Mason stopped chewing, just looking at Rube with wide eyes and his cheek bulging with cookie. "Something has come to my attention, and I have a very important question to ask you, Mason. Now, I asked you this once before, and I know what your answer was – but, how do I put this gently? You're a liar."

Mason swallowed audibly.

"That's not fair, Rube," Mason said, pointing a little, "I'm usually very honest; especially about being dishonest."

"Yes, but in this instance, I can't help but feel your answer was maybe a little hasty. So I'm going to ask it again, and I expect you to be honest," Rube said, "Can you do that, Mason?"

"Don't talk to me like I'm a kid, Rube, I'm not a kid. I'm a full grown man, and if anyone says otherwise, they're shitheads. Yes, I can bloody well be honest and I can handle anything you dish out."

He put on his toughest expression, which was that sort of stiff-upper-lip-wet-eye look that he got so often. Mason had yet to realize this expression actually made him look constipated, rather than hardcore.

"Alright." Rube said, putting his hands up in front of him, palms out to signify he surrendered, "Fair enough."

He clasped his hands together on the table, and in that moment, Mason was reminded of the Godfather. This was not comforting.

"Mason, are you drinking again?" Rube asked.

"No." Mason responded immediately, so fast that his answer overlapped the last word out of Rube's mouth.

Rube didn't look convinced.

"I mean – _'no'_." Mason said, putting a little more emphasis on the 'no' this time, as though it would make his answer more believable. "Why would you _think_ something like that, Rube?"

A long silence followed,

"Want to try that again?" Rube asked.

"No." Mason said, and began to get up from the seat, "Look, I have to go -"

"You don't have to go anywhere. Sit down." Rube said, forcing Mason back into his seat. At this point, Mason reflected on the fact that he needed to do some weight lifting, or Rube needed to lay off the steroids – either way, he was fairly certain no one should be able to hold an entire person down with one hand. It wasn't right.

Rube was a freak of nature. This wasn't a new theory. The other one was that Rube was actually an alien, but that had been an epiphany that had come when he'd been stupid enough to slug back Zambooka and Tequila at the same time. He was really lucky he was undead.

Not that he hadn't been wishing he was fully dead the next morning. He still couldn't remember everything about his revelation, but all he knew was that somehow he'd found a parallel between Rube and the Pod People.

"Why are you doing this to me Rube? Why are you asking me this?"  
"Because you have responsibilities, Mason," Rube said, "Because we have the sort of job that can't be fucked up."

"Are you implying I'm a fuck up, Rube?"

"No, I'm not implying you're a fuck up. I know you're a fuck up." Rube said patiently. There was a telltale edge to his voice, however, that meant his patience was beginning to thin – no one had ever seen Rube completely lose his patience, and that was generally because they behaved themselves before he could. No one wanted to see the bomb go off, because all of them were uncertain how much damage would be done.

"Oh thank you so very fucking – "

"Just shut up for a minute, will you?" Rube said, putting a few bills down on the table before getting to his feet, "Come on, we're going outside."

"Why outside? What's outside?" Mason asked, eyes flicking around the Waffle House, as though trying to find some other way to escape.

"A moment ago you wanted to leave; now you want to stay? What's outside, is fewer people." Rube explained, gesturing to the restaurant in general.

"Why do we want fewer people?"

The Godfather wanted him outside. He was going to take his cannoli or something.

"So we can talk with fewer ears listening." Rube said simply, and there was something a little too cheerful about his voice right then that made Mason decide he was maybe pushing it already.

Like a man walking to the guillotine, Mason stood slowly from his seat, and Rube put an arm around his scrawny shoulders and led him outside. He practically pushed Mason up against the nearest wall, crossing his arms over his broad chest,

"The point is that we can't afford slip ups, Mason, because people rely on us being able to do what we're supposed to do – bring them to the next life." Rube said, "We have to be able to perform correctly, function properly. You can't do that while your brain is swimming in black label."

"I said I'm not drinking. Why isn't that good enough?"

"Because you're carrying your flask again." Rube said flatly, and Mason gave him a sort of deer-in-the-headlights look. He had no where to run. "The silver one you've got so cleverly tucked into your jacket pocket. The one you've been using to top up your water glass every morning when you think no one is looking."

"You're very confrontational today." Mason said weakly.

"You have a problem, Mason."

"I don't have a problem. I can stop if I want to."

"But you don't want to, do you?" Rube said, and it was rhetorical. They both knew the answer. "Because it gives you something, provides euphoria – however brief – makes you stop thinking too goddamn much for a while, right?"

Rube was leaning in, voice low, eyes fixed on the Englishman. All Mason could seem to do now was stare.

"And after a while, it's not enough, so you have to drink more. It's called building a tolerance Mason, your body is getting used to the alcohol, the buzz is wearing off. The more you drink, the more you need, and the more you need, the more you drink." Rube said, "So you tell me whether you control your drinking or if it's the other way around."

A long silence followed,

"I'm undead." Mason said eventually, "It doesn't matter what I drink. I can handle it."

"You're pulling at strings, my friend. You're making excuses." Rube said, pressing his lips together so they formed a thin line. "You're in denial. I don't care if you are undead, because the alcohol is still slowing your motor reflexes, affecting your breathing, your ability to think properly, to make decisions quickly and coherently. It won't kill you, but it will make your life so fucking miserable you'll wish you were in the place of one of the victims in those brutal murders we witness every goddamn day."

"Stop." Mason said.

"You're an alcoholic, Mason,"

"Just stop, alright?" he said again, putting his hands up to make his statement visual, "I don't need to hear this. Not from you, not from anyone. I'm fine, I've been fine this long, and I'll continue being fucking fine."

"You need help." Rube said.

"I don't need help. I don't need any help, and I don't want any. Just – leave this alone, alright?"  
Something about Rube's expression changed; almost softened. It may have been that his eyebrows stopped furrowing for a moment that caused this, but whatever it was, Mason didn't like seeing it.

So he began to walk away.

"Mason?" Rube called after him, and the Englishman stopped a moment.

"Yeah?"

"Reap." Rube said, and held out a post-it.

* * *


	4. Unwashed and Somewhat Slightly Dazed

_

* * *

_

_P.Webb__  
Kleftiko Kitchen  
__10:16 p.m._

George crumpled up the post-it note in her hand and tossed it into the nearest garbage can as she stomped angrily back down the street,

"What the fuck are you looking at?" she snarled when one man stared at the blood splatter across her crisp blue blouse. Alright, so she was in a bad mood.

It had turned out that Kleftiko Kitchen, while sounding innocent enough, and actually being innocent enough, had been a Greek restaurant, and 'kleftiko' could be translated roughly to 'dead animal on a stick'. Over an open flame, no less.

Combining that with dancing, sharp knives, skewers, Ouzo, and a really big stained glass window honouring Athena – well, it hadn't been pretty.

The best way to describe it succinctly was to say that P.Webb had found himself on the wrong end of a kebab knife.

Extensively, however, it had something to do with the fact that the birthday boy – who was consequentially _not_ her reap – had alcohol on his breath when he went to blow out his candles. The flame had launched across the table, hit the gas burner attached to the barbecue, exploded, and caused a pressure wave so strong that it had sent several skewers across the room. One skewer smashed through the stained glass window, littering the floor and the ouside sidewalk with colourful glass crystals, and continued soaring.

Mister P. Webb – whose full name was, in fact, Percival Webb – had been outside when all of this happened, but the skewer that launched through the window had found its way into his throat.

That was the first time George had seen arterial spray actually arc like that.

So there she was, heading back to Der Waffle Haus because she'd been stupid enough to forget to take her goddamn car to her goddamn reap rather than run all the goddamn way there. Fucking Rube – if he'd given her the post-it earlier, she wouldn't have had to run, and she'd have had enough time to get there without rushing. What the fuck was his problem, anyways?

By the time she'd reached the door, George had decided she was going to give Rube a piece of her mind.

She stormed her way through the restaurant, directly over to the booth Rube sat in, and she started off great. Reflecting on it, her voice had been strong, her stance had been powerful, everything about it had screamed 'I am George, hear me roar!', and this was how she started:

"You know what? You can't just -"

And that was how she finished, because that's when she saw his face.

It wasn't like he'd sunk into gloomy, murky depths with enormous shadows beneath his eyes or anything, but there was something about his expression, the way he was sort of staring listlessly at the far wall, how his fingers were kind of gripping at his coffee cup, how that little tiny worry line had formed between his eyebrows. He looked melancholy, even for Rube.

Anything she had been about to say died in her throat; every protest, swear word, and childish insult she'd had loaded in her bitch clip had become a blank. If she said them now, they'd just be noise pollution, because now, with his eyes looking like that, it would mean nothing.

So she sat down across from him, plucked up a menu, and pretended to read it for a moment, even though they both knew she had it all memorized by now. She peered around the menu,

"Hey," she said, and this seemed to startle Rube out of whatever thought he'd been stuck in.  
"How did your reap go?" he asked.

George subtly shifted the menu in front of her blouse,

"Good," she lied, "It went good. Great. Everything, you know, went like it was supposed to. Guy died. It went good."

"Good." Rube agreed, and was silent again.

"So, um," George said, leaning forward, putting her elbows up on the table and tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear, "How are you, Rube?"

For a long time, Rube said nothing, but regarded George with his wise eyes. He didn't think they were very wise, of course, but George knew better – with all of the philosophy, and observations about life and death, and how much guidance he gave them all, Rube couldn't be anything but wise.

And that made it difficult to keep eye contact with him. Sometimes George felt like he could look right into her head; not in the weird way Kiffany seemed to know what they were going to say before they said it, but it was like Rube really knew everything going on in her brain. Like he could see it all, read her entire life and her every thought like she was a book.

That kind of freaked her out.

"You're a good kid," Rube said eventually, "I'm proud of you."

And that freaked her out a little more. She barely had time to register her surprise at his comment, or ask him what drugs he was taking and if she could have some, because Rube was getting to his feet.

"Where are you going?" George asked, looking up at him.  
"I've got to go do my reap," Rube said, gesturing with the post-it a little. "You'll need to soak that shirt soon if you want to get the blood out; it looks like a Jackson Pollock."

George opened her mouth to speak, but he was already heading out the door. A few moments later, Kiffany placed a warm cookie in front of her.

"Wha-?"  
"From Rube." Kiffany shrugged, and walked away.

She stared down at the cookie, and it stared back. It was chocolate chip, but someone had the brilliant idea to put the pieces of chocolate into the shape of a smiley face. George held the confectionary up in front of her eyes, watching it.

Happy little cookie, so perfect and pretty and round and satisfied with its little life; it made George want to just bite its little head in half.

And she did, and swore when she bit into a walnut chunk that had somehow got into it.

"_Georgia_, that's no way to speak in public!" Daisy exclaimed, and George nearly spit up in surprise. She regarded Daisy with narrowed, vicious eyes, and a mouthful of cookie. "Nor is that the way to eat; you should know better."

George raised her middle finger at Daisy, and the blonde seemed to take that as an invitation and sat down across from her.

"You know, you should really get that shirt washed," Daisy said, pointing to the spotty, reddish stream across her blouse. "Or you'll never get the stain out."

"My reap went fine, thanks for asking, and yours?" George asked sweetly, taking another bite of her cookie.

"Oh it was pretty easy. It was in a _library_," Daisy said, eyes looking up at the ceiling, beginning to wave her little hand around to make her story easier to visualize, "This dear sweet librarian was up on this wobbly old sliding ladder, putting away the books, and one of them fell off and simply _crushed_ her skull,"

George made a sort of 'blearrgh' sound, and tried to swallow her cookie before it could come back out.

"It was really very sad," Daisy said, and then a dazzling smile went over her face, "Kiffany, a diet coke with chipped ice and a very _small_ slice of lime, thank you so much sweetie."

That was the thing about Daisy that drove George up the wall. She never knew when the woman was being honest; she could burst into tears and George would still have trouble figuring out if she was acting or actually crying. Yeah, she was good, and it was annoying.

"Did you, uh, see Rube on your way in?" George asked.  
"Yes, he passed right by me, I don't think he even saw me." Daisy said, "He didn't even say 'hello'."  
"Well, did you say 'hello' to him?"  
"Hum? No, why would I do a thing like that, silly girl."

George decided not to question this polluted stream of logic, and forged bravely onwards,

"He seem kind of – weird – to you or anything, Daisy?" George asked.

"'_Weird_'? That's very eloquent _Georgia_," Daisy said, and gave a little smile when her drink was put down in front of her. She didn't see the glare George gave her when she took a sip. "'Weird' how?"

"I don't know, just kind of – distant. Sad."  
"We _are_ talking about Rube." Daisy said, and George knew she had a point. She couldn't remember a time where Rube didn't look sad; even when he was happy he looked sad.

"I think there's something wrong." George said, poking a little at the plate her cookie had been on, regretting that it was gone, but satisfied it wasn't watching her anymore.  
"He's dead," Daisy said simply.

"Well, yeah, but I think there's more to it then that. If he was mourning his death, he would've done it a long time ago."

A long silence followed, and the two women stared at each other.

"How did Rube die, anyways?" George asked.

"I – don't know." Daisy said, shaking her head, one of her delicate brows furrowing very slightly, "I don't think he's ever said."

"Do you ever get the feeling he's hiding things from us?"  
"All the time."

* * *


	5. Dead Man Walking

**Note:** Thank you for every one of your comments **Porcelain**, they're all greatly appreciated.

* * *

_T. Redman  
Corner of __Columbia__ and Cherry  
__11:36 p.m._

"It's alright man," Mason said wearily, gently cuffing Terry Redman's arm. Terry Redman was maybe twenty years old, a thin smallish boy with big, bloodshot eyes, and alabaster skin – he hadn't got very much sun or sleep over the last few days because of a week-long crystal methamphetamine binge.

Terry regarded Mason with those wide eyes,

"The pain's gone now." Mason assured him, and led Terry away from his corpse, face down on a Seattle sidewalk, surrounded by rubbernecks who had seen him jump the ten story building. They were just – watching. Like they expected him to get up again, or call an ambulance for himself.

Not that it mattered though, he was long gone. His ribs had collapsed in on his lungs and punctured his heart when he'd hit the pavement.

Terry hadn't been able to get off the meth; he'd tried for three and a half months, and it had become too much for him – he'd had a relapse, and when he started coming down from it on the eighth day, and had no more of the drug, and no way to get any more, he'd given up. He'd thrown himself off the nearest tall building to stop the hunger, the darkness, and the itching that made his skin feel like it was alive and burning.

"It won't hurt anymore." Mason said, and the emaciated soul of Terry Redman gave him a final, sidelong look, before looking off towards the blazing lightshow that every soul got. Mason didn't know what Terry was seeing, but whatever it was, he hoped it would make the kid happy – no one should have to live where their life is a much more painful choice than death.

Mason watched him go, and the light closed up, and he sank down onto a bench, closed his eyes, and tried not to think too hard.

It didn't work, so he went for his flask.

And it wasn't there.

Sitting up suddenly, Mason began to pat at his pockets, all over his jacket, his pants, even tried the back of his head for some reason. He'd lost his flask; how had he done that? Last time he'd had it was –

The Waffle House.

Mason could see it in his mind's eye, as Rube put his arm around his shoulders to lead him outside.

"That sneaky bastard." Mason said.

He really needed a drink.

* * *


	6. Rock N' Roll Suicide

_

* * *

_

_L. Parsons  
Back of __Henley Street__ Pub  
9:__10 p.m._

Across town, down a side street, and through an alleyway, Rube was leaning back against a roughened brick wall, eyes to the sky, and a dead hooker across from him. The sky had just closed up; taking the soul of the deceased Lisa Parsons with it into whatever otherworldly delight she had waiting for her on the other side. Rube always said he wasn't curious, that he could care less what they saw when they went into the light, but the truth was that once in a while he really did want to know.

Once, very briefly, in the breath of a second, he had pondered pulling a Betty and jumping in after a Reap, just to see what he would find, or if he'd find anything – anything better than what he was doing now, what he'd been doing for a long time now. But he'd settled into a routine, and the only thing that kept him going was occasionally indulging his curiosity by doing the little things that no one else saw him do.

Things like trying to lure Death into his home, to have dinner with Him, just to see what He was like. Naturally the offer had been turned down – rather harshly - but he'd tried, and that was what differentiated between Rube being a brick wall, and Rube secretly being a real person behind the sweaters and the deep frowns. He wasn't such a hard ass, really, and everyone was aware of the fact but no one dared to say it, because Rube was still intimidating whether he was secretly a softie or not.

Shoving his hands deeply into his pockets, he began to walk, and pondered over the Reap of Lisa Parsons. Rube had taken Lisa's soul just before she'd gone into the alleyway, when he'd given her back the purse she'd dropped – she'd extended him a half-price invitation that he had characteristically refused as politely as possible, and then she'd gone on her way to her death.

It hadn't crossed his mind that he should accept it, save her from a horrible fate, because he knew she would die anyways. No matter what way it happened, she would die. There was no sense messing with the way it was supposed to happen, but at least taking her soul beforehand had ensured it was pain-free.

She'd been young, only thirty-two, and she'd had a rendezvous in a back alley with a John she'd barely spoken to before leaving with him; the man had got aggressive along the way, and then he'd got violent. Now she was dead in a back alley.

It was cold outside now, given that the fall was ending and winter was fast approaching, so even at this time of day people were shivering in their coats, and their breath came out as fog; as a rule, Rube's didn't.

He pondered doing something other than going home and working, but as always, he ended up going home anyways, bypassing the park he could have gone to in order to watch the horizon or the kids play. Not like he was missing anything though, he didn't really like kids that much anyway, and sunsets were no good alone.

Rube was just outside his apartment building, about to go inside when he heard it; a long, slow drawl:

"Ru_by_."

He frowned, and took a step back, just enough so he could see the mouth of the alleyway alongside the complex. Sitting beside the trash was none other than Mason, and it didn't take a genius to know what his glassy eyes and dim smile meant – he'd been drinking. Heavily.

"Ruby," Mason said again, and spread his arms out as though trying to hug Rube from several feet away. A three-quarters finished bottle of Overproof dangled from one of his hands.

"What are you doing out here Mason?" Rube asked.

It seemed to take Mason some effort to really think about this, so he must have had a lot more than what was in his hand; Reapers had to drink five times as much as the living to get really hammered.

"I," Mason said, arms still spread, jerking his left one towards the dumpster beside him, "Am sitting with my kin."

He smiled dimly,

"My brethren," he said, and gave the trash a fond pat. "And in the morning, they'll toss me in the back with all of the other shit no one wants, and I can live in the belly of the beast, under mountains of more shit that no one wants."

"Garbage disposal doesn't come for another two days." Rube said, after a long silence.

"Fuck off, don't ruin my dreams." Mason said, dropping his arms back to his sides, the bottle clanking against the pavement; he looked at it as though he'd just remembered he was still holding it, and took another drink from it.

"I think you've had enough," Rube said, and approached the other man.

"Don't come any closer Ruby," Mason said, and stuck a foot up in the air, as though to fend Rube off with his sneaker, "Or I'll have to use my ninja prowess."

Unfortunately for Mason, even when he was sober Rube wasn't so sure the Englishman's 'ninja prowess' was anything to fear.

"Come on, Mason," Rube said, putting a hand out for the other man to grab onto. Mason merely stared at it like it was some foreign object, a strange thing he'd never seen before. After this went on for too long, Rube lowered his hand and sighed.

He'd carried Mason before.

He could do it again.

"What're you doing, Rube?" Mason asked as Rube knelt down beside him, plucking the unfinished bottle of rum from his hand, "You proposin' to me? I dunno if I can, Ruby. Is that legal here yet?"

"Come on, we're goin' for a ride." Rube grunted and lifted Mason unsteadily into his arms, cradling him like he did that day the other man had overdosed.

"A 'ride'?" Mason repeated, "This isn't a ride. You're Rube. Not a ride. Well, you could be ridden I guess, but I dunno. Is that legal? Riding Rube? Is that legal here?"

"Do us both a favor and stop talking." Rube said, dropping the Overproof into a garbage can as they went by it; it shattered on the bottom of the metal bin, and Mason looked wistfully after it,

"Bye, rum." He said, waving at the bin, "I'll see you soon."

Probably at the bottom of a toilet bowl.

The ensuing journey consisted of Rube getting through the front door with Mason in his arms, and getting to the elevator without dropping him. It was like a replay of the time Rube had carried Mason during his overdose, but this time it was much sadder – because this time, the damage had been done on purpose. When Mason had shoved a large quantity of cocaine up his ass, he'd done it with the intentions of eventually removing it intact and getting rid of it. But this time around he'd put the toxins – the alcohol – in his body willingly. There had definitely been no intentions to get it out.

Rube kept an uncannily straight face when the elevator slid open and his neighbor-across-the-hall, Mrs. Jacobson, was standing inside; a spry, seventy-something woman with white hair, big glasses, and currently a very surprised expression.

Rube stepped in, the doors closed, and the elevator began its ascent.

"It's Rube, isn't it?" she asked finally, looking at him like she'd never seen him before. Which she hadn't; not really, anyways. Rube came and went at odd times, he never stopped to talk to anyone, and he made a point of not being seen as often as possible – he was the topic of many discussions between the tenants in the same hall as him, mostly because all of them had their own story about him.

Mr. Belmont, a forty-something bank clerk who lived to the right of Rube's apartment, had theorized Rube was government-affiliated. He worked strange hours, had a dangerous job, and it was simply a bad idea to associate with anyone in the case they became a target for criminal activity.

Ms. Delaney, thirty-five, blonde, busty, and a gym teacher, lived to the left of Rube's apartment, thought that Rube was on the run; he had moved to Seattle to get away from his old life and start a new one. She had decided that he was probably very well off and that she thought he was really very good-looking. On several occasions she had tried to catch him outside of his apartment, and once she had managed to slip in a 'hello', and much to her dismay, that was all he slipped in too.

Mr. Rodman, a retiree, lived three doors down to the right, thought Rube was actually a hit man, and he was working late hours so he wouldn't be caught sniping down Seattle's rich and elitist members. He figured Rube was gone so long because he had to travel a lot to find his targets. People tended to ignore this theory.

Mrs. Jacobson, however, had always thought Rube was formerly a patient at a mental hospital, and he'd just recently been released into the public again and was having difficulty integrating with everyone again.

Of these theories, Mister Rodman's was the closest, but Rube would never know about any of these theories, and if he found out, chances were he still wouldn't really give a damn.

But it might have cleared a few things up.

"Yeah," Rube said simply, "It's Rube."

"Oh." She said, because she'd apparently expected a different answer.

"This is Mason." Rube said, "Say hello to the nice lady, Mason."

"Damn, you're old." Mason said, and then turned his head towards Rube's chest and nuzzled it a little, adding faintly: "They should make riding Rube legal."

"Just shut up, will you?" Rube asked, and then the doors opened, and Mrs. Jacobson got out quickly. No doubt the new rumor would be that Rube was actually a homosexual-government-affiliated-runaway-mental-patient-cum-hitman.

With some effort, Rube managed to get down the hall to his door, unlock it, and get inside before anyone else could see them and get in the way.

"You're nice and warm." Mason said, fingers curling under Rube's jacket, "Have you been working out? It feels like – oof!"

Rube dropped him.

On purpose.

Onto the couch, at least, but he still dropped him.

For a long moment, Rube looked at Mason sprawled out like that, and Mason looked up at him.

"Get some sleep, Mason." Rube said, and left it at that.

He'd take care of this in the morning.

* * *


	7. Hold On To Yourself

* * *

Eventually Mason did fall asleep, and surprisingly he managed to keep everything in his stomach while doing so. Sometime during the night, Rube had put a blanket over him, and given him a pillow; no flourish to it, no making it out to be the sweet gesture it actually was.

For a very long time, however, Rube didn't fall asleep. He hovered around the place, stopping to do some of his work, re-writing the assignment sheet onto separate post-its. That was his job, every night he had to write the name, place of death, and final hour of the people who would be reaped the next day - and social workers thought they had it rough.

Normally he would sit down and complete all of the post-its in one go, but that night in particular he was restless, and though he would never admit to it, it was because he was stopping to occasionally check up on Mason.

Eventually he sat himself in one of the elaborate red velvet chairs that decorated his elegant little apartment, and just sat for a while. After that, he fiddled with a Rubiks cube for all of five minutes - four sides were finished now - picked up a tome, and began to read. It didn't last very long, because eventually his eyes drooped, and he fell asleep, Voltaire's 'Candide' open in his lap.

And the sun began it's ascent, glazing the world in a gold light, and Mason began to dream. In all honesty, he couldn't remember the last time he'd dreamt, and it may have had something to do with too much alcohol, too little food, and a different environment, but the dream was very vivid.

It involved - hands. Two large, warm hands on him, sliding over his chest and stomach, calloused palms, gentle fingers. A voice murmuring things to him, things that made even Mason go a little red in the face. And then the hands dipped lower, and Mason woke up, because there really was a hand on him.

On his shoulder, though, no where else.

Mason looked up from the couch cushion he'd had his face pressed against, and found himself staring dimly at Rube's crotch. Apparently he was staring too long, because Rube cleared his throat, and Mason finally looked up and closed his mouth.

"You were squirming." Rube said, looking vaguely uncomfortable before he crossed over to the kitchen.

"I feel like i've got sand in my mouth." Mason said, and put his head back down onto the couch to stop the shooting pain going through his temples.

"Cottonmouth; you're dehydrated." Rube said, and brought over a large glass of water, setting it onto the floor beside the couch.

"Thank you," Mason said, and he moved to sit up, but the movement brought into a harsh light the fact that his dream, however brief, had affected him in ways that were only just beginning to subside. He gave a little grunt, and chose to stay down until he could - stay down.

"We've got an hour until we have to meet with the others," Rube said, still puttering around the place.

Mason realized then that he had been holding his breath; waiting for Rube to say something to him about what he'd done, the fact he'd been drinking too much again, and showed up at Rube's doorstep so drunk he couldn't even stand on his own.

He would be waiting for Rube to mention just how pathetic he was, to resort to alcohol every time things got too hard for him to handle, and how horrible it was that he couldn't find some other, more useful outlet for his stress.

But Rube didn't say a word about it. He just gave him _that_ look, with _those_ eyes, and _that_ expression, and didn't say a damn word about it.

And somehow, that was worse.

He would have felt much better if Rube had just yelled at him, maybe smacked him around a little like Roxie liked to do once in a while. That way he could have been satisifed Rube got it out of his system, and that he could go on with his own undead life, and get back to ruining the gray matter rather than using it.

But with Rube clamming up about it, it meant Mason would be waiting. Just waiting and waiting for the bomb to drop, for Rube to say something about it, bring the subject up at some point or another. Which meant he would have to stay sober until then, or else Rube would be right.

Of course, he knew Rube was right; both of them knew Rube was right, it was just, if Mason went and got drunk, and recieved the speech during or after said drinking spree, it would just throw into a harsh light exactly how correct Rube was, and Mason would have to face it as well. It was a simple evasive tactic; if there was no full-on proof that the previous night hadn't been a fluke, a once-in-a-while thing, then Mason could go on thinking he wasn't doing anything wrong. He could keep fooling himself, even if he wasn't fooling anyone else.

And yet Rube said nothing.

He probably knew, too. The bastard was probably well aware of Mason's dilemma, and the fact that the Englishman wanted more than anything to have and maintain Rube's respect. But he would probably keep that innocent expression, do that thing where he kind of shrugged, raised his eyebrows, scratched his nose, and pretend he didn't know anything.

At that point, Mason wondered how he had become so aware of Rube's little quirks. He could probably write that off as a complication of the hangover.

As well could he write off the fact he was currently staring at Rube's ass, and thinking about how good he looked in those tan chinos. How good he always looked in chinos, or jeans, or anything else for that matter. He also found himself wondering if Rube owned anything leather; seemed a bit frivilous, though, for a guy as conservative as -

No, that wasn't right.

That wasn't right at all.

Mason blinked once, twice, then groped around for the water glass beside the couch and took a deep drink, though a quarter of it missed his mouth.

* * *


	8. Knock On Wood

**Note:** Hiatus is over.

* * *

"Ever notice how everyone who goes here is really miserable?" George said, propping her chin up on her hand, looking bored as usual. "It's like all the depressed people in Seattle flock here. I mean, look, that guy's eating a blueberry muffin again."

"Since when did depression become synonymous with blueberries?" Rube asked.

"Since that sad guy keeps eating them." George said, gesturing to the diner from the previous day, "He's the sad man, the sad man eats blueberries."

"Therefore blueberries are sad." Daisy said crisply.

"Yeah, thank you, Daisy." George said, "A equals B equals C equals A."

A perpetuating cycle. Around and around. Again and again, the carousel, and the fucking clowns.

Rube subconsciously made the connection that his life could be summarized in a single, convoluted math equation.

"Blueberries are sad." Rube repeated, rubbing briefly at an eyebrow, "What fruit do you consider to be happy, then?"

"I don't know; strawberries. Strawberries are happy. Or bananas, those things are fucking hilarious. Raspberries, or pineapples – blueberries are just so blah. You can't do anything cool with blueberries, because no matter what you do, they always look and taste like blueberries. They're boring, and kind of sour."

This opinion, however, may have been biased due to the fact that George remembered when she was alive that her mother would make blueberry pancakes every time she felt guilty about something. After many years of blueberry pancakes as a precursor to bad news, one comes to connect the two events, and eventually, expect the worst from it. But that was just another George-quirk, and there was no shortage of those.

Normally Rube would have a witty response. Today, he was fresh out.

Wordlessly, he handed out post-its, and as was the norm, George peered curiously at everyone else's post-it, pretending not to. She always did that, and Rube had hazarded a guess that it may have been because she was checking that none of them were someone she knew – in that respect, Rube felt the sharp stab in the heart for George, because the first couple of decades as a Reaper were the worst. A Reaper got to watch everyone they ever loved, cherished, and cared for drop off like flies, and all they could do was stand idly by and watch it happen – because there was just no way of stopping it.

So, George peered over at Mason's, and tried not to make a face when she was sure she smelled booze.

_T. Hatchman_

_62 Benedict Pl. Unit 7_

_12:10 p.m._

And then Daisy's,

_J. Calworth_

_Corner of Orchard Boulevard_

_1:18 p.m_

And then Rube's,

_D. Reid_

_62 Benedict Pl. Unit 7_

_12:11 p.m._

"Hey, you two are reaping in the same spot." She said, grabbing Rube's post-it for a closer look, as though she thought maybe she hadn't seen it right the first time around, "A minute apart, too. What are you betting on? Freak accident?"

"I know that place." Roxie said, also eyeing the post-it, "We send DUI cases there so they can get their licenses back. It's a –"

* * *

"- fucking rehabilitation centre, Rube! Why did you give me a post-it to a fucking rehabilitation centre?" Mason asked, waving the post-it in Rube's face as viciously as a yellow scrap of paper can be waved. Rube just frowned.

"I think you're over-reacting, Mason. It's a reap, just like any other reap."

"Well, it just so happens that this particular normal, average, every day reap coincides with our current issue of –"

And then Mason fell silent, and Rube looked grimly satisfied.

"Issue of what, Mason?"

"Issue – I – there – you –" Mason stuttered, and then let his arms drop to his sides, "No issue. There isn't an issue. Really. Actually."

"Of course. Now if you're finished yelling at me about the issue that doesn't really actually exist, can we go inside?"

As it turned out, the rehabilitation centre was a bit like a makeshift detoxification facility – it wasn't government funded, but more like one of those locally supported community things, where people would gather in rooms and reassure one another that they deserved to live normal, healthy lives. This was a place where people gathered with others who were exactly like them, and talked about what their problem was.

Unit one was for men and women with sexuality problems. Men who couldn't get aroused by their wives anymore, women who were getting a funny feeling in the pit of their stomach whenever they were around their female colleague, people who just didn't feel right in their bodies.

Unit two was for Cancer survivors, people undergoing chemotherapy, losing their hair, finding someone to tell that the tumor had finally lessened, or that they could move without pain – or that they only had a month left to live, but didn't want to tell their families.

Unit three was for people with personality and social disorders – those that were able to get up the self-confidence to go there. These were the misfits and the outcasts, the people who sometimes didn't see the point, or saw too many points, or they just weren't understood, or they saw things differently or didn't see things properly at all. The antisocial-misanthropic, obsessive-compulsive, borderline depressed, schizophrenic, manic-depressive, and Prozac children of the world; all gathering in one room for an hour out of their week to feel like they weren't being stared at. Or try to feel that way, anyways.

Each unit had its own label, its own reason for being there, its own group of people to welcome with open arms - and there was no security, because walk-ins were allowed. This was one of those 'discreet' things.

So Rube and Mason sat in on the circle of chairs in unit seven, one of the few heavily populated groups, and most of the people there were wearing nametags – some of them had even laminated them. When it started, a thin, shaky-looking man with a tag that declared his name was Drew, stood up,

"My name is Drew Reid," he said.

Rube looked at his post-it. There he was.

Mason wasn't looking at his post-it. He was just quietly pleading that the man was not about to say what he thought he was going to say,

"And I'm an alcoholic."

Mason groaned.


	9. Let's Talk

**Note:** Merry Christmukkah.

* * *

_11:10 p.m. _

"I think this is our biggest turn out for a while now," Drew said, rubbing his hands together and then pushing his wire-framed glasses up his nose – his eyes were swollen and red, like he'd been crying recently, or maybe even drinking.

"I know we don't – we don't usually start until Doctor _Hatchman_ is here," he said, and the way he spat out the name made Mason finally start paying attention. He looked down at his post-it now.

_T.Hatchman. _

"But I just thought we should say hello to the new faces – the, the new people. The new guys. Yeah."

He gestured, naturally, to Rube and Mason, and to one other man sitting beside them. All three of them, grown men, stared at Drew like deer caught in high beams – a public speaker always had that sort of control over an audience, even in a room that small.

The guy beside Rube and Mason, the third who had been gestured to, was the first to speak,

"My name's Trevor." He said, and pointed to his name tag, where it very clearly declared his name, "See? Trevor. Um. I'm an alcoholic. I'm trying not to be."

There was a lifeless chorus of 'Hello Trevor' before they all turned their eyes onto Mason, who cringed under the attention. He sunk a little into his seat, wide eyed.

"Christ, they're all staring at me." Mason mumbled.

"That's because you're not saying anything and you look like a jackass." Rube mumbled back and yanked Mason up by his denim jacket, putting him into a proper sitting position again, "Now tell them your fucking name."

"David." Mason blurted out, louder than he needed to. "It's David."

An awkward silence as they waited for the second part. Rube nudged him.

"I'm not saying it." Mason said between his teeth.

The silence stretched on, and there was some nervous coughing around the room, and the scuffle of chairs as everyone pretended to concentrate on their seating arrangements, rather than on the fact that 'David' was refusing the key part of his introduction – admitting he had a problem.

Fortunately for Mason, that was when the group's therapist appeared in the doorway. He was a well-preserved forty-something; a man with a baby face, tousled brown hair, and big blue eyes that had just a few fine lines beneath them.

"I'm sorry I'm late gentleman, thank you for starting us off here, Drew." He said, and Drew seemed to curl back inside of himself, and immediately dropped into his chair, eyes to the floor. "I'm afraid I got a bit caught up with something."

And then he was making his way across the circle, but he stopped in his tracks halfway, his eyes landing on Trevor-the-new-guy, and there was a strange exchange between them; surprise on the therapist's face, and then both of them smiled.

"I'm glad you decided to come." he said, taking his seat, "For those of you who I've never had the pleasure of meeting before, I'm Doctor Hatchman. I work down at the detoxification facilities during the day and hold these sessions once a week."

"Yeah, we all know." Drew mumbled, and Hatchman gave him a sideways look before continuing.

"It's good to see new faces, to know you've come here by your own will,"

"Not really." Mason grumbled, and Hatchman's luminous eyes landed right on him.

"And what's your name?"

"David." Mason said quickly, "Um, Jones. But my friends call me Ziggy. Ow, dammit!"

He rubbed at his arm now, and Rube pretended he hadn't just blatantly elbowed Mason.

"And you're with David, then?"

"I'm his support system. Yes." Rube said.

"My tough love support system." Mason grumped.

"And your name -?" Hatchman asked, still directed at Rube.

"Nathan." Rube said.

"Nathan, what relation are you to David?"

There was a pause, and Rube and Mason exchanged looks,

"Friend." Rube said finally, and Mason sunk into his chair a little more.

From there, the meeting progressed.

The circle went around. Tales of woe as each of the men talked about their problems – marital issues, sexual problems, and stress at work, inability to cope with emotions, temptations, binges, and withdrawal. They all drank heavily at one point, but the difference between them and other alcoholics was that they were trying to change themselves for the better – all of them had something to say, except for Drew, who seemed to just withdraw into his own shell, further and further as the session went on.

_11:50 p.m_

"David, would you like to tell us a little bit about your problem?"

"I –" Mason said, startled out of the stupor he'd allowed himself to sink into, "Um."

At this juncture, he knew that saying 'I don't have a problem' would not fly. Even he had the state of mind to know that their only response would be to give him a pitying look and mumble things about denial. After a long silence, Mason seemed stuck, his eyes flicking around the room like ping pong balls as he tried to find a way out.

So Rube did what he did best, and handled the public relations end of things.

"I just wanted to commend you," Rube said, and all eyes shifted to him now, even Drew, "Every one of you for coming here."

"Why is that?" New-Guy-Trevor asked, apparently getting the point – shift attention away from Mason.

"Because years ago, groups like this didn't exist." Rube went on, "Years ago, alcoholism was still considered a curse – something caused purely by the devil. Back then, you were just considered spiritually weak if you drank. And modern society is no better, so obsessed with this – testosterone-fuelled image of masculinity, it's considered weak to seek out help. That's obviously not the case. You've got to be strong-willed to want to solve your problem, going to this sort of thing – especially attending religiously, like Drew here. People like him set an example for all of us."

Embarrassed little smiles appeared, and around the room shattered self-esteem got just a little stronger. Even Drew managed to look a little less gloomy, so Rube took that moment to briefly pat him on the shoulder; it looked like a friendly gesture, but both Rube and Mason knew otherwise. On some quasi-spiritual level, Drew probably also knew what had just happened – but on a conscious one, he had no clue.

"Thank you for that," Hatchman said, finally giving a genuine smile of his own, "I think Nathan has raised a very good point here today – it should be asserted that attending an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting is not an act of weakness, nor is it anything to be ashamed of. It's a sign of strength."

_12:00 p.m_

Mason reflected on the fact that Rube had done what he always managed to do; he had just quelled any remaining self-righteous anger or bitterness that was currently residing in him, and force him to see it from another point of view.

He fucking hated it when Rube did that, because once again, it meant he would be admitting Rube was right. He wasn't sure why that was such a big deal, but for some reason, it just was.

Maybe it was because he wanted Rube's approval.

"I drink too much," Mason said finally, breaking the brief silence that had fallen over the room, "I'm always drinking. I don't remember the last time I had a day where I didn't have a drink – actually, I think today is the first time in about a year that I haven't had any alcohol within the first few hours of being awake. I top up my water glass with vodka in the morning, I, um, I carry a flask with me most of the time. Except lately."

"Why is that?" Hatchman asked.

"I lost it."

"No, I mean, why do you drink?"

He could feel Rube's eyes on him. Mason chewed a little on his bottom lip, and he felt Rube nudge him again, but this time it wasn't painful because it was just Rube's fingers, pushing at his hand – not trying to hold it or anything, but just sort of ghosting nearby.

And this was a vital moment in time for Mason, because it meant he would be admitting things to others that he hadn't even admitted to himself yet. It meant he would be doing something he hadn't done for a very long time, taking a step up, and making a change.

And his thoughts ran thusly:

_I drink because I had a miserable childhood._

_I drink because I wasted my life away and I'll never, ever get it back._

_I drink because I'll probably take your life one day._

All eyes were on him.

_I drink because it's genetic._

_I drink because I've had a problem with substance abuse since I was eleven._

_I drink because I've got nothing else to put all of myself into, and even if I did, all of myself doesn't account for much of anything anymore._

Drew Reid was shuffling around with a black duffel bag beside his chair.

_I drink because I want desperately to forget it all._

_I drink because I hope that one day I'll wake up from a black out and my problems will have been solved for me._

_I drink because I just can't deal alone, but I can't form a meaningful relationship._

_I drink because you'll never get it._

A vital moment in time; colours were realigning.

_I drink because I'm dead._

Reassuring, long, warm fingers.

_Oh shit. I'm gay._

_12:10 p.m._

Drew Reid withdrew a Smith & Wesson .45 revolver from his black duffel bag and shot Doctor Hatchman in the chest. Trevor was on his feet moments later, shouting to him:

"Arthur!"

"Arthur?" Mason repeated, and beside him, a stunned fellow A.A attendee nodded.

"Arthur Hatchman. Trevor Hatchman is the doctor's brother."

"Oh bloody hell."

Mason reached out in time to brush his fingers against Trevor's shoulder, and the blue light flared up just moments before Drew put a bullet between Trevor's eyes.

_12:11 p.m._

Drew Reid turned the gun on himself.


	10. Slow Burn

Amidst the chaos, it was easy for Mason and Rube to vanish without a trace. Sure, leaving the scene of a crime was a crime in itself, but neither of the Reapers could risk being put into files or being remembered. They were around crime scenes constantly, so if they were questioned at a second one, suspicion may start to form around them – because being witness to a murder was unlucky. Being witness to two murders, at two separate times was just uncanny.

Three was pushing it, and Rube had been witness to a lot of murders.

Now, Rube didn't like liabilities, and being tailed by cops would be a _huge_ fucking liability. So they booted it, got away as fast as they could and didn't look back, though part of Mason's brain was still in that room, sitting on the little plastic chair, waiting patiently to say what it had to say.

At least it would have the pleasant company of Trevor Hatchman's brain, though it was decidedly in even worse condition than Mason's was, sprayed everywhere from floor, to wall, to ceiling. It was just another of a hundred images burned permanently into his brain; poor Trevor Hatchman running to his brother's side, the bullet bursting from the back of his head, bringing a shower of blood, gore, and auburn hair with it. Trevor Hatchman hitting the floor by his feet and Drew Reid, without a face, landing beside him seconds later, his wire-rimmed glasses lop-sided and shattering when they hit the floor.

Amazing how his memory didn't work until he didn't want it to. That visual would be there for eternity, festering, haunting his dreams until he had to drink a little more so he wouldn't have to remember it.

"I'm going to hurt you, Ruby," Mason said, running alongside the bigger man, trying not to listen to the distant sound of sirens. "I'm going to hurt you very badly."

The sirens were just getting further and further.

"I'm going to fucking hurt you for putting me on the spot like that." Mason continued, his words fuelled by adrenaline, panic, humiliation, utter rage, and something else that he couldn't quite put his finger on. Whatever it was, it was clear he wasn't thinking straight, wasn't considering that Rube could break him over his knee like he was a twig, snap him with those two big, graceful paws of his and – goddamn it, what was his _obsession_ with Rube's hands all of a sudden?

They both began to slow; stopping by the corner of some brick warehouse, and Mason could have cursed when he saw the sky was beginning to darken like it was mirroring their moods.

"Go ahead." Rube said, his breathing a little heavier than normal, but only barely. Mason couldn't have been more winded than he was right then, but he still had the energy to look surprised by what Rube had said.

"'Go ahead' what?" Mason asked.

"You saw those men in there, Mason," Rube said, "Guys who are fighting to keep their families, their friends, their _lives_. They binge on alcohol thinking it will make them feel better and for a minute it does, and then when it wears off, their lives are worse than they were before. You saw that. You were even ready to say something back there, maybe _help yourself_ a little."

Thunder cracked overhead, and Mason jumped a little.

"You saw the darkness those guys had hanging over them, the guilt, the self-loathing, _the anger_ that they just couldn't let out. And you felt just like them, didn't you?"

Rain was beginning to dampen Rube's hair against his forehead now, and Mason realized Rube had let it grow out more than usual.

"And you didn't know how to handle it. So you're angry. You feel mean and vicious and you want to direct it at something, someone, so go ahead." Rube said, gesturing with his hands up, palms out, "Hurt me. See if you feel better."

Mason couldn't seem to make his voice work, and with Rube looking at him like that, he felt the burning anger flicker and die away. Left in its place was – nothing. Absolutely nothing.

"I don't pick where our reaps take place." Rube said flatly, lowering his hands now, watching Mason. "I didn't _choose_ for us to go there today."

A pause,

"But if you want to keep giving up like that, all you'll ever be is a _fuck-up_."

And then there it was again, the rage flaring up red hot and searing into Mason in a way so strong he couldn't even remember ever feeling anything like it before. It was so sudden, so all-encompassing that even if Mason had wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to control what he did next; it was like something had just snapped.

"Stop calling me a fuck-up!" Mason roared, and charged head-first into Rube, grabbing him around the waist and knocking him back onto the pavement, the rain beginning to pour down onto them, spattering over their shirts, leaving patterns across the clothing, darkening the colours.

"Can't take the truth, Mason?" Rube snarled back, and Mason managed to elbow him in the chest, "You're a fuck-up; you screw things up for yourself every time!"

"I am not a fuck-up, you wanker!"

Rube's biceps clenched and suddenly Mason was on his back with Rube looming over him,

"Drew Reid had a few before he came to the session today," Rube growled, and Mason was struggling to free his arms, but Rube had pinned them onto the ground above his head. "He was out of control; he was looking for a way out,"

"Let go of me!"

"He was angry, probably angrier than you've ever been in your entire life, angrier than I've ever been."

"Get off of me, you fucking –"

"He didn't know how to get it off his chest, he didn't know how to handle it, and he didn't know how to stop his blood from boiling under his skin, so he directed it at someone in a way that was more permanent."

"Stop – just – don't – Jesus –"

"And you know what? The moment he pulled that trigger, he became the biggest fuck-up in the world."

"Why are –"

"Anger, Mason! Anger! That's all it was, because he didn't understand, he didn't _fucking know_ there were people who wanted to help him, people who gave a damn about him! He didn't know how to _let it go_, so yell, scream, shout, swear at me, hit me if you have to, but for fuck's sake, stop keeping it in and pretending it's all right, stop thinking that it's _brave_ to hide it! Confront yourself!"

Mason's expression went blank, and he stared at Rube with wide eyes, and Rube stared back, and it was a strange and frozen tableau, the rain hit them more steadily, running off Rube's jaw, tracing his features.

And then Mason brought his knee up, hitting Rube square in the stomach, knocking the bigger man back, and then they both just lay there, side by side, staring up at the sky and panting.

After a long silence, Mason wheezed:

"You piss me off."

"Good, you piss me off, too." Rube said flatly, blinking rain out of his eyes, "Are you ready to talk now?"

"I want to fucking hate you for doing this."

"That's a start."

"But no matter how hard I try, I can't. You're like that Rube, you know, you piss everyone off because you're too cold." Mason said, his words coming out all at once, rushing like each word was fighting to get into the air first, "But then you do things, you buy them a warm cookie, or you – or you put an arm around them when they're weepy, or you put out your hand when they're so off-balance and down-trodden and fucking _pathetic._ You're like a wall one moment, emotionless, cynical, bitter, and the next –"

A pause,

"-well, the next moment, you're something else."

Another, this one longer.

"I was already high when I died, you know," Mason said, settling further into the puddle that was appearing around them as the rain came down harder, "Made sense when I was doing it, putting a drill into my head. One of the guys I knew, he suggested it, said it was supposed to give you a high like no other."

"It's called 'trepanning'," Rube filled in, "Old malpractice – puts extra oxygen in the brain, and excess oxygen can put you in a state of euphoria."

"Whatever it was, I did it wrong."

"What were you trying to get away from?" Rube asked, and Mason considered this for a moment before he spoke.

"Life." He said finally, "I did a good job of it, eh?"

Rube couldn't say 'no' to that, but he didn't have the heart to say 'yes' either.

"We look pathetic, don't we?" Mason asked, staring up at the ugly grey clouds crowding into the sky.

"Yes, we probably do."


	11. Under Pressure

**Author's Note:** Erk. Yes. I know! Long time coming, but it's here, and it's all downhill from this point. It shouldn't be long for the next chapter this time around.

* * *

Fucking bran muffins. 

Fuck Daisy Adair and her fucking health food. Fuck. Fucking fuck.

"I want chocolate," George roared, and she wasn't the least bit surprised when no one answered, on account of the fact she was the only one in the apartment. She couldn't completely fend off the disappointment, however, that there wasn't even a fish she could tell her problems to. At least then she would be able to pretend there was someone listening and giving careful consideration to what she had to say, secretly dissecting her words and making an internal report on the goings-on of Georgia Lass' mind. It would be a very talented fish.

She slammed the cupboard shut, just because slamming something made her feel a bit better, and then settled on slouching on her bed and chewing on a piece of three-day old pizza.

The problem with being undead, or more specifically, being undead and female was that, despite the fact you got to quit doing most of the things you used to do - like having a family, a job, a social security number, a heartbeat – a woman still got what was dreadfully known as That Time of the Month.

And Georgia Lass' monthly visitor was currently raging and painful, and making her crave sweets with the sort of intensity that had created Frankenstein's monster. That's what she imagined others saw sometimes – a slathering, wild-eyed monster, snarling and drooling with her eyeballs rolling back in their sockets, walking stiff-legged with her arms straight out.

Sweeeeets, she would moan, and then go to town on some unsuspecting victim's brain; she was sure she could live with eating brains, if Daisy would let her.

And then the George-Monster would offer the Daisy-Monster some brain, and the latter would refuse because there were too many carbs.

Brain carbs.

The knocking at the door derailed George's train of thought, and she grumpily got up from the bed, ready to give the evil eye to the person on the other side. She was good at that, she narrowed her eyes with a hellish intensity just as the door was opened, but as it turned out, it just wasn't a good day for anger because what was on the other side of the door was very difficult to be angry at.

A scrawny, wide-eyed, wet, and dreary-looking Mason; his expression was enough to make her wordlessly step aside to let him in.

And with a second glance, George noted that Mason wasn't just wet - he was drenched. He was so thoroughly soaked that the water was running from his hair and onto his face, trickling steadily towards the floor.

"Georgie," Mason said, after a moment of staring at one another, "Georgie-darling, there's a problem."

"Besides the fact you're watering my floorboards?" George asked, sarcasm being a reflex; she winced and tried to correct it, "What is it, Mason?"

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then gave her a bobble-eyed look that made her think of the fish she didn't have.

"Mason, have you been -"  
"If you ask me if I've been drinking, I will smash my head through that window."

Maybe it was sick, but George kind of wanted to finish her question to see if he would go through with it, but she decided she probably couldn't afford to replace a window that month.

"Um, why don't you sit down?" George said, and Mason sat down on the discarded piece of pizza but didn't seem to notice, so George pretended she hadn't either. The silence extended as it had done so many times in those last few days, and both of them tried to speak at the same time before falling silent again.

Mason tried again, and spoke very slowly, as though he was trying to pronounce every letter:

"I think," he said, "That there's something wrong with me."

George couldn't help the feeling that she was being set up, so she stayed silent and kept her sarcasm to herself this time around; she merely urged him to go on and didn't bother voicing the fact that there was, obviously, something wrong with him – like the fact he was dead.

And spent his time defacing property and stealing car meters.

And was dead.

"And it's beginning to bother me. So I'm going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer me honestly."

"Okay."

"In the time you've known me, have you ever suspected, even for a moment, or have I ever shown evidence of, um,"

"Yes?"

"George, do I seem gay to you?"

George must have frozen for a long time, because Mason's expression somehow became more strained.

"Huh?" she said finally, and realized Mason was actually expecting an answer, because he was watching her with wide eyes again, "Um. Gay? Are we talking 'bright and cheerful' here, or -?"

"Gay. Gay, as in ho-mo-sexual; am I a homosexual, George? Because lately, I've been feeling like a homosexual!" he said, and his voice got more frantic, "Because I had dirty man-thoughts!"

Mason put his head in his hands and swore, so George did what she remembered her family had done for comfort, and put a hand on his shoulder and patted it awkwardly despite the fact she wanted to get up and run.

"Had you been drinking?" she asked, and kept a grip on his shoulder so he wouldn't get up and use his head as a battering ram.

"I had a hangover."

"Why are you asking me this?" George asked suddenly; it had occurred to her just then how unfair this whole thing was. Why her?

"Because you're the only one who won't laugh at me. And you remind me of my sister."

"You had a sister?"

"No, but you would remind me of my sister if I'd had one."

"That makes no sense, but I think I know what you mean. You remind me of my hypothetical brother, too." She said, "My hypothetical bi-curious brother."

"George!" Mason crowed, suddenly on his feet, "Ah! Jesus Christ, why did you have to say that? God! Fuck!"

"No, wait, I'm sorry, stop freaking out, sit, you're my completely heterosexual hypothetical brother!" she said, trying to be heard over Mason's curses; she grabbed his arm and yanked him back down into something like a sitting position, but he was a lot bigger than her, so he just bounced off the edge of the bed and wound up on the floor.

Defeated, Mason hung his head and resumed looking pathetic until George couldn't stand it anymore,

"Look," she said, struggling to be the one to spout wisdom this time around; sure, she was great when it was within her own head, but when it came to being deep while speaking out loud – it never sounded the same,

"I totally can't say I know what you're going through, because we both know it would be a lie, but what I do know is that the only way to deal with this sort of thing is to confront it. Or ignore it. Whatever. But eventually it will come to you if you don't do it first, and by then it's probably going to be a lot worse."

George was pretty sure what she had just said was at least moderately relative to the topic at hand – and if not, maybe she could fake her way through it. Mason seemed to be considering his options then, or at least it looked like it, because he was sitting very still.

"Well," Mason said slowly, quietly, "What's the worst that could happen if I don't confront it?"

"It'll confront you at the most awkward time possible, and then Daisy will laugh at you."

"That's not so bad."

"And Rube will call you a fuck-up." George added, and Mason was suddenly on his feet, squishing wetly towards the door.

"I have to go now."


End file.
